“Hi, Buffy,” she said. “I’m Salma de la Natividad. Willow has told me so much about you.”
“Salma was in my world lit class,” Willow explained. “She did a great paper on the impact of magical realist literature on election cycles in Latin America, and . . .” She must have seen the glazed look that Buffy could feel inching across her face, despite her best effort to appear interested. “She has kind of a problem.”
Which doesn’t take a genius to figure out, Buffy thought. And I don’t think it has anything to do with her final grade in world lit.
“Oh?”
“It’s my brother, Nicky,” Salma told them. Her lower lip quivered, and Buffy was afraid she was going to break out crying again. Buffy could battle outlandish beasties all day long, but the emotional outbursts of strangers were close to terrifying for her. “I haven’t seen him for days.”
“Do you usually see him?” Buffy asked.
“He’s been staying in my apartment with me for a while,” Salma explained. “But now he’s missing.”
“What do you think, he’s run away? Kidnapped?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Salma replied. She looked across the table at Buffy, regarding her with serious brown eyes. Buffy felt like she was being sized up. “I didn’t go to high school here in Sunnydale,” Salma continued. “But I have heard stories about you, Buffy. Not from Willow, but from others. Kids who speak of your high school graduation day, when you . . .”
“Well,” Buffy said, picking up a scone and tearing off a little bit. She always felt strange to hear that civilians knew about any of her Slayer exploits. Most people in Sunnydale had made a lifestyle choice of looking the other way. There had been, after the graduation incident, some recognition from her fellow students of her role in keeping them alive, but it had faded quickly, and she had become invisible girl again. “People exaggerate, you know.”
“I don’t think so.” Salma regarded Buffy very seriously as Buffy nibbled on the scone. “I think you are truly something special.”
Buffy shrugged uncomfortably. Praise wasn’t her preferred position in a conversation.
That’s more up Faith’s alley, she thought, chilled for a moment, then let it go.
“Buffy’s mom feels that way, too,” Willow said to Salma.
Salma took a breath. “The reason I bring it up is that I am afraid for Nicky. Afraid that he has become involved with something . . . something supernatural.” Unconsciously or not, Salma touched the crucifix around her neck.
“Why do you think that?” Buffy asked.
Salma started to speak, and then the floodgates opened. Tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She bowed her head and began to sob quietly. Willow took Salma’s hand, and they let her cry for a few minutes. When she was able to bring herself under control again, Willow handed her a tissue. She blew her nose and looked shyly up at them.
“I’m sorry,” she said meekly. “I’m such a baby.”
“Don’t be silly,” Willow insisted. “You’re worried.”
Salma dabbed her eyes and twisted the tissue between her hands. “Yes, I am.”
“You said something about the supernatural,” Buffy prodded gently.
“Yes,” Salma nodded. “My grandmother . . . she has some experience in these things. I am afraid that Nicky is following in her footsteps, without really understanding what he’s toying with. I believe there are forces—dark forces—at work in the world.”
“You’re not kidding there,” Buffy said. Willow glanced at her but kept her silence.
“And if Nicky has become involved with them, as I fear, then he may be in more danger than he can imagine.”
“Or there.”
“You do know about these things, don’t you?”
“A little,” Buffy admitted. Nervously, she sipped her mocha, pulled some more crumbs off the currant scone.
“Nicky has always been a dabbler,” Salma told them both. “He takes up a hobby, spends some money on it, then moves on to something else. Like skiing. He decided one winter that he wanted to take up skiing. He subscribed to three magazines, bought the most expensive Rossignols he could find, ski clothing, special sunglasses. Now it all collects dust in his closet. By the next winter, he was on to snowboarding.”
“And you think this month’s diversion is demonology or something?” Buffy asked.
The distraught girl smoothed back her perfectly smooth hair. “He was living with me, at my condo. But he was calling Doña Pilar, my grandmother, a lot. Asking her questions. And I found some books, in his room.”
“What kind of books?” Willow asked.
“Books with strange names,” Salma replied. “I remember some of the titles. De Vermis Mysteriis. Brotherhood of the Dawn. The Book of Eibon. Culte des Goules.”
“Giles has that one,” Willow interjected, a little excited.
“Willow . . .” Buffy’s tone was a warning one.
“Well, he does.” Willow snatched up her cup and drank, then set it down indignantly.
“Okay. So he left these books behind, and they freaked you out.”
Salma hesitated. “Yes . . .”
“That’s the technical term,” Buffy explained. “Freaked out. Sorcerers and black magicians use it all the time.”
“You think I’m being foolish,” Salma said. It wasn’t a question.
Buffy instantly regretted being flip. “No, not at all. I believe you’re genuinely worried about him.”
She took a moment. Willow was sending help her via the magic of serious face, and who was she to deny that she’d been looking for something to do?
Not to do, she corrected. To slay. I’m a vampire slayer, not Sherlock Holmes.
And a grown-up guy who’s been living with his sister, away from his parents . . . I hear mere road trip in this equation.
“If he’s been reading those books, I also believe that you might be right,” Willow said. “He might be messing around with things he doesn’t understand. Bad things.”
“And then, three days ago,” Salma continued, “He didn’t come home. I called our family in Los Angeles, and all of his friends that I know. No one has seen him, or heard from him. This isn’t like him at all. He is very much a family person, always in touch.”
“Couldn’t be something like he got a new girlfriend?” Buffy queried.
Salma shook her head. “He would have called, or something. He would have brought her over.” She gripped her coffee cup.
“You really are scared, aren’t you?” Willow asked her.
“Do you think you could—no, never mind.” Salma looked at her lap as if she had lost something there. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any right to ask.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Willow chimed in. “Of course we’ll help you, if there’s anything we can do.”
Buffy wanted to kick her. It wasn’t enough that she had to live on a Hellmouth and kick demon behind her whole life, but now she was being volunteered to assist a friend of Willow’s track down a brother who had probably just gone surfing in Baja for the weekend.
But that wasn’t what she said. What she said was, “Sure we will. Whatever we can do. I mean, any friend of Willow’s . . .” She left the thought unfinished because she wasn’t really sure how to end it.
Salma flashed another smile. Buffy realized that when she did smile, the girl was past beautiful and into stunning-model territory. Her rich olive skin set off the whiteness of her teeth, her deep brown eyes almost glowed with passion, all topped off by that lustrous black hair. She seemed very alive, all in the moment, but very sad. Suddenly Buffy found herself wanting to help Salma as much as Willow did.
After all, there was no summer job ahead for her, no special plans, just patrolling and spending time with Riley, and while those things were good—the Riley part especially was great—it wouldn’t hurt to have a goal. A challenge. Something to make the days go faster.
“Of course,” she said at length. “When
can we get started?”
“I think you’re right, Buffy,” Riley told her that night. They were patrolling together, making a circuit of Weatherly Park. Riley, tall, darkish blondish, and gorgeous, wore his fatigue pants with a dark olive ribbed T-shirt. Buffy, remembering the stifling heat of the night before, stuck with a T and cargo pants. “He’s probably just off partying with some buds. Got caught up in the adventure and forgot to call home.” He flashed a smile at her. “Hey, teenage guys can be irresponsible sometimes, right?”
“Most of them,” Buffy said. “Most I’ve known, anyway.”
“So in a day or so, her brother will probably remember and give her a ring. In the meantime, it’s nice of you to spend some time looking around. She give you any idea of where to begin?”
Buffy thought about it a moment. “Not really,” she said. “Her brother had some books, you know, the kind Giles likes to keep around for light reading? How-to guides for the spirit world, and so on. But nothing as handy as, say, a road map fell out of them when she shook them. So I’d have to say that’s a big no.”
He was scanning the perimeter, a bit distracted. He was a well-trained combat guy, but he didn’t have Slayer reflexes; every once in a while the multitasking tasked him.
“What are you planning to do, then?”
She shrugged. “Mostly keep Salma company, I think, is the plan. Until Nicky comes home on his own, or we think of something. Willow and Tara are hanging with her tonight. Weepy movies and ice cream on the agenda.” She smiled wistfully. “Chubby Hubby ice cream.”
When he smiled, he had dimples. “Wish you were there?”
Buffy looked down at her stomach, then at Riley. She took his hand. “I think I’m right where I want to be,” she said.
There was a glance of smolder, as Willow had taken to calling them. Buffy and Riley were not lacking in the chemistry department. Nor in the respect department. He knew she was stronger than he was, and that was kind of cool, in his book.
And that was incredibly cool in hers.
He gave her hand a squeeze and took a final look around the park, turning in a slow three-sixty. His practiced eyes didn’t miss a thing. Buffy loved watching him work—the way he triangulated his field of view: near, middle, far, so that he would see anything that was there to be seen. He was methodical, dividing up the landscape into sections, dismissing one before moving on to the next.
At one point he stopped, gave a nod. “Young lovers on the grass over there,” he pointed out.
“Cute,” Buffy said. They were probably making with the big smoochies.
They shared a look: there but for patrol go we.
And also except for the fact that they had access to indoor smoochie facilities, namely Riley’s place.
Riley chuckled softly—he was reading her mind, or else her body language—and Buffy knew it was time to get back to business.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s cut across the park toward the playground, see if anything’s happening over there.”
“I thought those two would never leave,” Burt said, meaning the petite blonde and her tall militia-type boyfriend, or whatever he was, wearing cammies. He and Aimee were sprawled on a blanket on the grass. They’d had a nice picnic as the sun set, and then had been sitting and talking quietly ever since.
It was their third date. The first two had been a little more traditional—dinner and a movie, then a weekend lunch and a game of miniature golf. Now the picnic. Burt had great hopes for the picnic. He knew Weatherly Park closed at ten. But he also knew that there were spots inside the park where the groundskeeper who locked the gates couldn’t see someone who was waiting quietly. And once the gates were locked, privacy was assured.
It had worked for him before.
Not with anyone quite as hot as the lovely Aimee, though. Burt sold cars at the Ford/Lincoln dealership, and Aimee was the new chick on the lot, working as a cashier in the service department. Since her first day on the job, Burt had kept an eye on her. It was impossible not to. She was tall, built, and had he mentioned built?
Her hair was red and thick, piled on top of her head at work but loose and free-flowing now. He had started flirting with her during her second week on the job, casually, taking it easy, not pushing as so many of the other guys had done.
That was the way Burt sold cars, too. He kept things loose, easy. Let the customer sell himself. Let the car sell itself. When the customers ran from the high-pressure techniques of the other salespeople, they ran straight into the arms of Burt, who acted like he didn’t care if he never sold another car—just as long as people left the lot with smiles on their faces.
And his no-pressure system made him the highest volume performer on the lot, month after month.
Now, he was about to find out if it worked with Aimee, too. So far, so good.
And she’ll leave with a smile on her face, too. No problems with that kind of performance, either.
Guaranteed.
Aimee was watching the incongruous pair hop the fence. Burt watched too, anxious for them to be gone. They were surprisingly athletic, particularly the woman, who had looked too small and slender to be making the moves she was making. Trick of the light, or something: he could have sworn she shimmied up the eight-foot fence like it was a stepladder. Then she hopped over like no big deal, with a nice, easy landing.
“You’re sure there’s no one else around?” Aimee asked.
Her voice quaked a little. Good, Burt thought. If she’s nervous, that means she’s game.
“Absotively,” Burt said. That was one of his favorite words. Sometimes it was followed by “posolutely.” But not tonight. Because as soon as the first word was out of his mouth, Aimee’s tongue was in his mouth.
Wow. Talk about horsepower.
Breathlessly, she turned to him, pressing his shoulders against the blanket. “Oh, Burt, that’s so good,” she said, panting. She smiled at him. “I’ve been waiting long enough.”
He felt her hands roaming over him, his shoulders, his chest, his legs. He was a little taken aback—he liked to be the aggressor—but not enough to object. Hey, I can be a piece of meat just as much as the next guy.
It was only because he was lying on his back, eyes open, that he could see anything at all. It had gotten that dark. Aimee’s cheek, in the forefront of his vision, was illuminated by a stray beam from a streetlight just outside the park fence. But suddenly, as he watched, the spot of light that defined her cheekbone disappeared into shadow.
Someone standing over us? Cops?
Burt pushed her off and sat up quickly.
“What’s the matter?” Aimee asked. “I thought this was what you—”
“Shh!” He looked around. There was the streetlight. But he couldn’t see what had passed between there and here to block its light. Couldn’t see anything but the shadows.
And then, the shadows came to life.
A black shape, nothing more than dark against dark, moved across his field of vision. Aimee clutched his forearm, her fingers biting into his skin. She saw it, too, then.
“What is it?” she hissed.
“No idea.”
There was no way to determine its borders, its boundaries. One shadow slipping across another shadow, black on black, moving with absotive, posolute silence through the benighted parkland.
Burt couldn’t say why, but he believed it was getting closer to them.
If only I could see it clearly, he thought.
Aimee let out a hushed whimper. Burt wouldn’t have minded if she’d screamed.
He felt the tiny hairs standing up on his arms, his neck. It was definitely getting closer. He thought he could hear something now, but then he realized it was just a breeze fluttering the leaves of the trees that he couldn’t see, the trees that were also in shadow.
Just before it struck, he smelled it, though; an exhalation of dank, fetid breath that washed over them. His stomach knotted.
A moment later sharp claws ripped it from his
body and spilled it onto the ground.
Finally, Aimee screamed.
Then it was her turn.
Chapter 2
THE WHOLE GANG CONVERGED AT GILES’S APARTMENT AT noon—the “gang” consisting of Buffy, Riley, Willow, Xander, and Anya. Giles had called Buffy early in the morning, awakening her, and insisted that she gather them together first thing. She had agreed, then fallen back to sleep in Riley’s arms.
Twenty minutes later, she awoke with a start and a guilty conscience. She made some calls and took a quick shower. And here they were, almost like they were having a come-as-you-are party, because Anya, for one, had some serious bedhead going, and Xander hadn’t shaved.
In a wrinkled jeans skirt and a nice fuzzy sweater, Willow covered a yawn and looked politely interested.
All were seated around Giles’s cluttered living room, and Buffy was wishing she and Riley had taken the time to get a couple of lattes to stay awake. Giles, in an actual T-shirt (Grateful Dead, yet!) and a pair of jeans, was so not the tweedy British guy of yore, yore being high school.
He stood to one side of the group, where his stereo system was. Albums—the vinyl kind—leaned against the system. Derek and the Dominoes, Van Morrison, The Who. Buffy had heard of the British Invasion; Giles seemed intent on reliving it.
He was talking about his new hobby.
“I’ve been listening to, umm, police band radio lately,” he explained. “It’s fascinating, really. A bit of a slice of real life, you know. As opposed to those ridiculous programs you all watch on television.”
“Like Cops?” Xander suggested.
“Precisely.” He realized he’d been taunted, and blinked the way he did when he was slightly miffed. “Or—well, never mind. The point is that what I’m hearing are the Sunnydale Police Department’s own internal communications. Just in case they run into something that’s a bit out of their league, as it were.”